


Amnesia

by Forbiddenmichael



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Ashton Irwin - Freeform, At a concert, Calum Hood - Freeform, F/M, Feels, Fluffy-ish, Luke Hemmings - Freeform, Michael Clifford - Freeform, basically what i want to happen in my life, dorky mikey, how is that even a tag, mentions of fan accounts, michael is a cute shit, on stage drama, shit loads of feels, so kind of about you, youre the girl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 16:15:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4673162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forbiddenmichael/pseuds/Forbiddenmichael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your heart was in your mouth the entire time. Watching the boys as they communicated through the entire manover using only eye contact and slight brushes of hands on sweaty arms. With Michael being even closer to the edge, you could see every flutter of his eyelashes, the pink flush of his pale cheeks, the individually dyed hairs of varying colours of set against the older black which were sticking to his forehead in some places due to sweat, and finally the slight glint in his eyes as he looked left and right quickly. Making eye contact with both of the body guards that were patrolling the width between the railing and the stage, before he jumped down and landed on the ground with a slight “hmp” which you could even manage to hear over the screaming. The body guards kept their eyes trained on the excitable 19 year old that was skipping around the space. </p><p>or when Michael starts to walk in the space between the barrier and the stage at a concert, and you may or may have nearly blacked out in front of him</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amnesia

**Author's Note:**

> so this is my best thing ive written I think. I do really like this one ugh. want this to be my life tho

The screaming was unbearable. What was once the frequent shouts and screeches of the names of the four boys on stage, had now just turned into a consistent wail of noise. And it was amazing. Your head may be thumping due to the proximity to the booming, pulsating speakers, and your eyes may be fuzzy with how warm you felt from the heat that the large stage lights in front of you were emitting, and your waist, hips and entire body may be aching from the iron railings that the billions of other girls were shoving you against, but none of that mattered. The adrenaline and euphoria you were feeling was overpowering and all consuming. The boys were here. They were real-and yes, you thought, that did sounds stupid. Of course they were real, but after spending months and years sitting behind a laptop or phone screen watching and absorbing every little habit and rise and pitch of their voices, they had become something you could never even comprehend being able to see. Watching those little tics that they had in person, the way Michael would always flick his hair in a certain direction when he was playing the guitar even though no hair was infront of his face, the way Calum always stood with his legs spread out ridiculously when he played the bass, the way Luke always rose and fell with his shoulders and face when singing into the microphone, and how Aston always did that little twiddly finger thing with his drumsticks during the breaks in the drums during Amnesia.

Amnesia. That’s what you were concentrating on. You’d heard it a hundred times before, the live version on Livesos, the studio version, actual live versions from all the updates accounts on various social networking sites, but this time it was different. Different in the fact that Michael-who plays the acoustic guitar during the song-had moved a box as some form of seat from the main stage down a run way that jutted out into the crowd. The boys normally stayed in some form of unified line throughout the whole of the tour. With their own sections which crossed over throughout the night, so the presence of a runway was different and to Luke, who may not seem it, was skittish of leaving his normal position in the centre of the stage. So Michael took it upon himself to centre himself within the crowd on a small black box with his contrasting plain acoustic guitar compared to his new sticker plastered electric one. This time it was definitely different. An end of something that you had been with and apart of from the start. They were branching out, moving away from the teen poppy sound of songs like heartbreak on the big screen and over and over. Amnesia was one of the songs that didn’t fit their new style, and you knew that. It was a closing of your childhood as much as the boy’s, as Michael started strumming the opening chords. They were changing, their music, their look, who they were as people, and it made your head-along with your heart-ache. Watching them grow up as you had done. But you were proud, proud that they were finally doing what they were doing.

So as you watched Michael play with a bowed head over the guitar, both of you completely engrossed, you felt a shift. Being so close to the stage, well as close as you could possibly get with your body shoved against the restricting barrier, you could see the slight change in Michael’s demeanour as he switched to autopilot on the guitar and turned his face to the boys further up the stage. Ashton stayed, like always, safely behind the confides of his drum kit whereas Luke and Calum were moving about. The bass in the song had stopped and Calum was replacing his bass for Michael’s old guitar. Adjusting the straps, not bothering to tune it knowing Michael would have done it earlier; he began to play Luke’s guitar section, overlapping with Luke for a second before it was only Calum playing. As a break in the song came and ended, it was Calum’s voice that filled the arena as he sang one of Luke’s multiple verses. Luke, still apprehensive, made his way down the run way, and approached Michael, and took the guitar he was playing. The electric guitar and the drums covered for the few seconds that there was no acoustic before Luke continued where Michael had left of. Not playing or singing anything, Michael left the makeshift chair and approached the edge of the stage.

Your heart was in your mouth the entire time. Watching the boys as they communicated through the entire manover using only eye contact and slight brushes of hands on sweaty arms. With Michael being even closer to the edge, you could see every flutter of his eyelashes, the pink flush of his pale cheeks, the individually dyed hairs of varying colours of set against the older black which were sticking to his forehead in some places due to sweat, and finally the slight glint in his eyes as he looked left and right quickly. Making eye contact with both of the body guards that were patrolling the width between the railing and the stage, before he jumped down and landed on the ground with a slight “hmp” which you could even manage to hear over the screaming.The body guards kept their eyes trained on the excitable 19 year old that was skipping around the space.

The whole arena had exploded into a mass of noise and screams of “Michael!” and “Mikey!” as the girls closest to him tried to catch his attention. He shone in it. Basked in the attention of the millions of girls screaming his name, letting girls lean over the railing to hug him and take photos which would remain as their phone backgrounds for months. You had almost blacked out. The feeling of being so close to someone you had watched all your life being too much. He wasn’t even near you yet and you could still almost feeling your heart beating out of your chest, and the pain of being crushed against the rail by the other girls trying to get an inch closer to their idol wasn’t helping.

Your hands shook as you clasped your phone, holding it out across the railing, you took as many picture of the boy as possible as he made he was cautiously around the stage lights, more careful of the pyrotechnics than the other boys due to his encounter with a rather unforgiving fire cannon. The song had changed, not that you could hear it over the rushing of your own blood in your ears. He was coming closer, following the curve of the line of girls, hugging, kissing and poseing for each of them. Ten girls away, eight, five, two, one.

Hand still shaking and heart still hammering, he reached you. Holding your hands out in front of you, phone in hand he leaned forward towards you, placing a kiss to your cheek as the shutter snapped shut on your phone as it captured the moment forever. His soft lips had actually touched your cheek, his sweaty hair brushing your forehead as he lent down to pose for the camera. You had never thought they actually touched you when they did that, always heard people say how they kind of just pouted next to your face, against you skin, never actually touching. All of this ran through your head, as the sweat collected in your hands and he pulled away slightly. “Hi” he whispered just next to your ear. Okay, you thought, this was so not happening. You tried to open your mouth to speak, form any coherent sentence but all you managed was a slight chocking sound before he pulled away. His smell still lingered in the air you were breathing in but he didn’t move on. Girls around you were screaming, grabbing at you and him and it was as if he was looking right at you. Actually at you, taking in your features as he stood with flat feet across the railing from you. Giving you actual eye contact, not like the glazed look he gave most fans when he was asked to sigh this or that, or pose a certain way. All your limbs felt like jelly, you couldn’t feel any of your bruises that your knew you would have in the morning from the rough crowd and you didn’t even feel the biting cold metal that your hands were still flopped over. Hanging limply over the failing, your hands holding a loose grip over your phone, even though they were still trembling. He smiled at you, and this whole euphoric event seamed to last a life time, the thirty second encounter dragging out with ever shaking intake of breath. Raising your arms up and over the barrier, you tried to get some blood pumping through them, hoping the trembling would stop then. Still with Michael’s gaze on you, your movement were uncoordinated. Arms not following the way you told them to, made worst by the quivering of your phone in hand. It was still unlocked, and that was the last though that you had as an overexcited young fan shoved you particularly hard in the small of your back and the phone slipped from your grip and skidded across the floor. On the wrong side of the railing. Until it slid to a stop next to a combat boot clad foot. A perfect toothed smile crossed Michaels face as he looked down from you, to your phone that had been stopped by his boot. The phone was face down, showing the case. All black with cursive white writing saying “Future Mrs Clifford”. He smirked; bending down rather difficultly in the constricting black skinny jeans he always wore and picked up the phone. Becoming even more excited when it was unlocked and knowing there was no way that you could get to him or your phone that he was now flicking through.

You head was dizzy and you felt like you were going to throw up. Girls around you were screaming, at you? At Michael? At the fact that Michael was now skipping around to the stairs that led back up the catwalk, still with your phone in his hand? You didn’t know, and frankly you didn’t care. Michael Clifford was on your phone! And he was recording something! Holding your phone up once he had got back up on stage, he began speaking. Saying something that would be inaudible until you could watch what you thought was a message that he was recording. This never happens to me, you thought. You were never the fan that got noticed, followed, had a photo liked by them, got a DM reply on twitter, got brought up on stage, and here Michael Clifford was, recording a video message on your phone whilst you stood shaking with overwhelming tears in your eyes. Strolling up and down the stage still recording, he stopped. His back to you, allowing you to see a flash of a white screen with a blue streak at the top with white curly writing at the top. You would recognise that loading screen anywhere, being as night after night of sleep was lost due to you posting about how much the four boys on stage meant to you . The other three members had carried on playing. Although they seemed as shocked as you did to see there childish band member frolicking about on stage in front of thousands of fans whilst snapping hundreds of photos on a phone that said “Future Mrs Clifford” on the back. Except for you it was more heart wrenching to know that it was your phone, and also the fact that all these photos were being directly uploaded onto your fan account as he took them on Instagram. He kept stopping to type every now and then, adding captions and then making a different face. Running to and from the other boys and getting pictures with them as well. All the other girls had just erupted into cries of happiness for you, and some of jealousy as he stopped running about around and approached a free mike which was in his section.

“Well,” he said. “So looks like I have a wife then” he giggled out, brandishing your phone in the air as he spoke. All the fans in the arena screaming, even the ones who wouldn’t have been able to see his earlier actions. He had locked the phone, and even from here you could see the screen lighting up as your notifications exploded. He faced you, smirking and laughing as he spoke into the mike again. “Well if my wife ever wants to actually meet her husband,” he paused, looking to the other three boys, smiling at them and nodding at them. If you had been listening to the songs in the back ground, you would have known that the set was coming to an end, but you could only focus on Michael and his raspy voice as he spoke again into the mike. “Then she could actually text me! But she needs to get her phone back first!” and that was the last thing he said before the stage plunged into darkness and the boys vanished with a final smash of the drums and strum of a guitar.Confetti rained down on the stage and the screaming fans. Girls were gripping you, speaking to you, or screaming. You knew this from their lips moving, not because you could actually hear them. A softer hand patted you on the back.

One of the burly security guards pierced the ringing in your ears as he grasped your shoulders and spoke close to your ear. “Mr Clifford has requested for your back stage”. And it may be true to say that you fainted, right there, right then.

*** 

Your eyes fluttered open, and you sighed. It was a dream, of course it was. “Of course it wasn’t real” you muttered as you turned over grumpily, taking a scratchy blanket over you, which you found odd as you always slept with the soft duvet you owned. You felt breath on your face, and the faint smell of boys’ cologne and sweat. That was also odd. You opened your eyes slowly, and were met with the most piercing pair of green eyes, filled with excitement and something else. You sprang back, not expecting anyone so close to your face. It took you a second to adjust, but there he was, Michael Gordon Clifford. Still wearing what he wore on stage and looking down at you laying on the sofa in the bands dressing room. It was only the two of you. “Oh it was real sweetheart” he smirked before plopping down on the floor besides the sofa. 

Heart rate increasing and blood pumping even faster than it already was from being frightened, due to someone’s close proximity whilst asleep-let alone that person being Michael Clifford-you breathed in sharply, plastering your body against the back of the sofa and away from the multi-coloured haired boy in front of you, who was watching your every move. To say you were startled was an understatement, but also the bundle of nerves in your stomach was growing. Twisting and churning, making you feel sick and as if the thousands of butterflies buzzing around in your stomach where physical not just a result of being this close to your idol. As you inner turmoil flashed across your eyes, only showing as a glazed-over look to Michael, you forgot about how your hands were shaking and your skin was developing goose bumps and chills. “You alright?” Michal asked, dropping the bad boy persona you knew he only put on for the cameras or naturally fell into when he was performing on stage. But to answer his question, no. No you were 100% not okay. Not okay with the fact that a sweaty, slightly red in the face band member was asking if you were okay. And definitely not okay with the way he reached out towards your twitchy hands underneath the rough blanket and gripped one slightly, rubbing what he thought was soothing circles on the back of it. Needless to say they were not bloody soothing, but it didn’t stop your body sending all of its blood to your hand as your brain permanently engraved the feeling of his calloused fingers against your skin. Tingling and catching on your skin.

You still hadn’t spoken. Letting your head fill with scenario after scenario. Will he think you’re odd? Why the hell weren’t you speaking? Speak! Say something! Anything! You opened your mouth to speak, but your throat constricted. Your tongue felt heavy in your mouth and it scraped along the roof of your mouth like sandpaper. Coughing and spluttering, you sat upright. Hand on your thoat and the other over your mouth. Michael, startled at the incoherent girl in front of him, sprung upwards, and pushed himself on to his feet, arms flapping silently, not knowing what to do. As you continued coughing, you thought about the likelihood of spontaneously combusting and how that would be much more enjoyable than dying due to a coughing fit brought on by your incapability of forming two words. “Water?” Michael asked, not asking you, but himself. His mouth flopping open and closed like a fish, running his hand through his damp hair before replying to himself awkwardly “Water” he confirmed before sprinting out of the room, tripping over a spare electrically cable to an amp that was mysteriously missing.

Tears still in your eyes from your restricted breathing, you tried to calm down. Okay, so yes you were in 5 Seconds of Summer’s dressing room. And yes you were wrapped in a blanket that smelled suspiciously of chemicals and shampoo. Hair dye? And yes maybe your phone on the shin height coffee table in front of you was practically sparking with the amount of notifications you were getting. But Michael had asked for you, it’s not like you’d snuck in or something. You distinctly remember a strong looking security guard saying that Michael had asked for you, before everything went fuzzy and a little black around the edges. Lighting up again and again, your phone taunted you. So you relented. Pushing the thoughts of sitting on a sofa that all of the boys had sat-and god knows what else-on. Still keeping the blanket-which you thought, and secretly hoped was Michaels- around your waist- you flicked your legs to the side and tucked them underneath each other. Leaning forward you snatched your phone off the table. Unlocking it and smiling ecstatically when you saw the boy had taken the liberty of setting your background to a picture of the two of you. You would have done it anyway, on every device you owned, just probably not this picture. You looked like you were about to start crying, face scrunched up like some form of munchkin with overly chubby cheeks and large crinkles by the eyes, but Michael was kissing you. Well your cheek, but you could definitely see that his lips were touching your skin.

You ran your hand subconsciously over the spot, feeling the same tingling feeling that was mimicked on your hand from where he had also touched. Sighing internally at how much a touch from someone could reduce you to a puddle of awkwardness, you clicked on Instagram. The app which was the source of the majority of your notifications. Upon loading it, your followers had gone up-and to say they had gone up a lot would be the understatement of the century. And the amount of mentions, comments and tagged photos was unfathomable. That was almost too overwhelming, but right now that wasn’t what you were looking for. Clicking to your own photos, you saw the edition of over a hundred photos. All taken by Michael as he giddily hopped around the stage as you looked on, trying not to pass out due to the absurdity of the situation. Starting from the first photo he had taken you scrolled through them all, looking at the captions and trying not to be overwhelmed when the liker count was well into the thousands. Captions along the lines of “Do do doo do do me Calum” tagged underneath an action shot of the bassist looking directly into the camera lens, a simple “Ashtern Irwhen” under a rather monkeyish expressioned Ashton during a drumming solo and a rather simple “Penguin Boy” captioned under an extreamly photogenic photo of Luke playing the acoustic guitar during amnesia. Multiple photos later you were still laughing into your phone, almost cringing at some of the micky takes of captions and photos he had taken. One of which was just a twenty second long video of Michael’s feet as he ran down the runway on the way to the mike. Reaching the last photo, you almost sighed, upset that it had reached the end. Even though you knew he had been on your phone for long enough to do more than just spam your Instagram. But all the air was knocked out of you as you looked at the last photo.

It was taken a considerable amount of time after the rest. Presumably when they had left the stage and proceeded to ride out their adrenaline highs in the room you were now in. Thinking of that, where are they? The rest of the boys, you mean. Weren’t they meant to be crashed out on the three, well used cracked black leather sofas in here? And also where was Michael, it clearly doesn’t take that long to get water? You pushed the thoughts away as you focused on the picture. He had obviously taken it from some side door of the stage. You were looking up towards the sky, hair falling around your face and framing it, a side profile. You briefly remember the moment you had looked upwards to try and force the tears back into your eyes and stop them from falling. But the glistening in your eyes was not picked up by the camera. It was a new model phone with a high quality camera and somehow amidst all the chaos of the aftermath of his antics, Michael had managed to capture the perfect photo. All around you was a blur, a mess of band mechanise wearing teenagers and you were captured perfectly. The only focused figure in the entire blur, highlighted by a stage light that had captured the highlights in your hair, glinting like sequins back at the camera. Looking up at the sky you looked like you were praying, with a vacant expression with the corners of your mouth tilted upwards and the individual strands of your hair whipping around your face. And you had to say it was perfect. The prefect photo of you, looking like someone you never thought that you could possibly look like. And as your breath puffed out of your mouth, taken aback by the quality and rawness of the photo you looked at the caption. And that was when your world spun out of orbit.

“God she’s beautiful”. Three words had knocked all the air out of your lungs, and left you lightheaded and dizzy. Not baring to look at the words that no doubt could be the end of you, you clutched your phone in your hand and brought it to your chest. Pressing it there as if the picture with its words could just leap right off the screen. Even when you closed your eyes, leaning back against the sofa to steady your breathing the image was still there. Burned onto your eyes and now the inside of your eyelids.

Heart literally beating out of your chest, you let out a muffled scream as two arms snaked around your shoulders from behind. Linking together in front of you, whilst their owner blew hot breath onto your neck. The smell of chemicals was gone, replaced with the hint of vanilla and something else. Strawberries? He’d showered. Knowing you needed time to collect together your reeling thoughts and process that yes, this was real life. His hair was just as damp as it was before but this time with clean fruity smelling water not sweat, and you could tell all of this as you smiled slightly and he placed his head on your shoulder, still behind you as his hair brushed your neck. “Hi” he whispered. Mimicking his earlier actions from your first encounter. This time you could reply but only just. Letting out a quiet “Hey” before he untangled his arms from around your neck. Walking around the sofa and sitting down on the spare cushion next to you, you tried to stop the creeping smile that was starting to spread across you face when you saw he had a small bag next to him, containing some lemon flavoured water and a little bag of sugared donuts. Even though now drinking the water was at the very back of your mind. His hands were fidgeting nervously in his lap and his eyes flicked upwards to you, the tips of his ears turning red as he saw you were also taking in his features. Even though you had already done this through a computer screen months and years ago, it felt like the first time. The little bump of the end of his nose compared to the soft swish of it before it reached the end, the way his skin formed and rose upwards around his lips before in bruised and turned the darkened plumper shade-so much darker than his ghostly pale skin, the darkness of his bushy yet kept eyebrows as they knitted together in confusion as you continued to study him unfazed, and then the deep dark green of his eyes, the eyes that were cast down in embarrassment, only highlighted by the dusty pink his high cheek bones had turned. 

“It’s true, you know” he said. Dark lips moving and forming the words as effortless as his stubby fingers plucked and strummed guitar strings. “What?” you asked, still breath taken by the angelic looking boy who was giving you his undivided attention. He blushed, glancing down at his knees which were almost, not exactly, touching your leg. “You are, um, beautiful” his bashful yet nervous smile afterwards spawning the familiar butterflies in the pit of your stomach. Yep, this was defiantly a dream. Yet again you were left speechless, unable to form a sentence. “It’s okay,” Michael whispered, reaching forward to stroke a hair that had become caught in your mouth, pulling away and then stopping mid motion to rest a hand on your neck, just above your shoulder. He looked at you with too much emotion for you to begin to decipher before speaking again, “You don’t have to say anything” he spoke as he swiped a thumb over and under your shirt. Trying to calm you and stop you from feeling like a terrified deer on a motor way.  
And that was it. You were sitting here, with Michael. Michael, who you never though would even bat an eyelid at you, who was now calling you beautiful and touching you. So you moved. Made the first decisive decision all night. Lurching yourself forward, and Michael physically relaxed, not tensing up when you placed your lips on his. It was everything you had imagined, but so much more. You were kissing him, and he was kissing back. His hand which had moments before been rubbing circles on your neck was now drawing you closer to him. Helping you angle your head just so.

With that you decided that no you weren’t dreaming. No dream, no matter how realistic could make you feel the way you were now. Stripped of everything you had but also so full of everything Michael was giving you. Kisses like these didn’t belong in dreams. They belonged in fairy tales.


End file.
